


Will the Real Malcolm Tucker please stand up?

by travellinghopefully



Category: The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Angst, Character Death, F/M, Romance, Smut, angsty angst, bad language
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-15
Updated: 2016-05-19
Packaged: 2018-06-08 16:01:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,848
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6861973
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/travellinghopefully/pseuds/travellinghopefully
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, the ongoing attempt to fill all the prompts that have been languishing and all the new ones that came in for the anniversary promptathon (what was I thinking?)</p><p>So, this one is for @Springburn59 - Malcolm finds love, with, a kiss of relief (not Clara) - so that was the prompt</p><p>Now, I decided that Nicola and Terri the fount of no good idea ever would conspire to sign up Malcolm for online dating.</p><p>Unfortunately, as this is a Bronte anniversary year, I may have listened to Jane Eyre, and been musing on the first Mrs Rochester. So a funny, lighthearted, romantic romp has a very dark heart.</p><p>Hopefully this shouldn't spread out over too many chapters.....</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Back story

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. They couldn’t know, no one knew, he made sure of that, even Tom only knew the haziest of details. Only Malcolm knew the true story. How his heart had turned to stone, what had left him the husk, the shell of a man barely passing for human. They couldn’t, they wouldn’t know, it wasn’t their fault that they did what they did. 

Terri and Nicola the fount of bad ideas.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

His beloved, his precious, his darling. They were both 15. Each other's first. He was never worthy of her, no matter how much time passed, no matter the vagaries of memory. 

Everyone had opposed them. 

Her Dad, her brothers had beaten him to a pulp, he said he’d been caught in the midst of some football fans, he was foolish, it was nothing.

They had married anyway, just 17. Throwing their lives away. They’d done it properly, no matter what anyone else said, a sympathetic priest, two of their friends from school, none of their families.

Nothing else existed except them, every cliché, that was them.

She wouldn’t let him skip any studies, she held him to the same high standards she kept herself. He worked harder for her, striving to be worthy.

One room, only room for the bed – they were young enough and in love enough for nothing else to matter. Still took all they had to pay for it, find the work to cover it, still eat, fresh air and kisses not quite enough to keep them fed and love only kept you warm part of the time. They shared more hours in the local library than the staff did, crouched over their homework, thrown out when they shut up for the night (when libraries opened in the evening), they haunted the late night cafes, spinning out whatever was cheapest, black coffee for him (he claimed to have eaten at work – she loved him for the lie, never allowing her to skip a meal), the cinema, once in a blue moon. 

They thought they’d been careful, as careful as anyone is at 17. He was overjoyed, he couldn’t believe the thrill the prospect of being a Dad gave him, anything was possible, nothing would stop them. He found a night shift at a factory, one where they didn’t check too closely how old he was, one where the pay was good if you worked hard – they saved everything, wanting it for when the baby came. He didn’t consider missing being curled up with her, wrapped round her, feeling the swell of her, the curve of her under his hands, they had forever. He woke her and they shared breakfast with the best of what he found on the market on his way home – they were very good at cutting the bits off that made others considered fruit spoiled. They thought it tasted wonderful anyway.

 

The day.

 

He was on interview.

He was at Oxford. The furthest he had ever been from home, the furthest he had ever travelled, his first time in England. She’d insisted, he said Glasgow was good enough – she could go to Oxford. They would go together, him starting his studies now, her as soon as their baby started school – no more than children themselves and already thinking about their own child’s first day at school. Other people did it, their grandparents had been no older than they were now.

They didn’t reach him. He wasn’t certain they had even tried – when you’re 17 no one thinks about finding the husband. 

Her parents made the decisions. They never said to anyone she was married – they slid the ring off her finger before anyone else noted it. That was his hardest fight, to get it back. They chose to save her (he was never sure if he wouldn’t have made the same decision).

The baby was lost and she was lost too. Though she lived. 

He lost himself too.

17, a pointless place at Oxford, and everything he thought he had was gone.

How could he say he cared? He wasn’t even there. That was what her parent’s said in court, when he fought for his rights, fought to see her, fought to care for her. Back when he thought she could still come back to him, when he still believed the flame of her burned somewhere deep inside. When he still refused to believe all that remained was a shell.  
He passed his exams, he owed that to her. He didn’t go, he couldn’t leave her.

His existence (if it could be called that) had two poles, the hospital, the paper – somewhere that would take him where weird hours and burning fury didn’t count against you. The nursing home after the hospital, surrounded by those he saw as just a stepping stone away from the grave, nowhere for his wife, nowhere for a young girl like her, there wasn't even a fucking view. He couldn’t afford anywhere better to start with, his money on lawyers, and second opinions and third and fourth until he lost count, the file of papers he clutched as a life line trailed from one specialist, one consultant, one snake oil salesman to the next. 

She was still a teenager, he held her hand sitting with her on the day of her 18th birthday, not a sign of her family now – when they grasped what it would cost, when there was no sign of her getting better, they were happy for him to care, happy for him to pay. They could swoop in if she returned to them, she would be none the wiser. He made more money, better nursing homes, better facilities, innovative therapy, fighting to stave off the atrophy, the curling in of muscles no longer used, the wasting away of a tenant less body. Chasing any possibility, always holding on to denial never giving in to grief. Grief meant hope was gone. 

A better job? More money, certainly, better care? Leading them to London, far from home. If he had any soul left it was with her. His days didn’t leave him time for sleep, for food, but there was time for her. The staff called him The Ghost, haunting the place at ungodly hours. Always talking to her, never over her, never through her, never round her – sharing news with her, reading to her, brushing her hair, doing her nails, she had always loved nail varnish, sharing his ipod, putting it in his own ears first to make sure it wasn’t too loud. They had never agreed on punk, but he played it anyway, and all her favourites. What little they had, her parents took, but he remembered every singer she had ever loved – all the tracks played so often there wasn’t one he didn’t know by heart. The closest he came to sleep an arm round her, resting on the edge of her bed, his head just touching hers – the closest he came to thinking she was still with him.

They’d all seen someone who looked like him in the papers, in the background on the news. Couldn’t be him, must be someone else, everyone had someone somewhere, a doppelgänger, that’s what everyone said. Even if it was him, that was no one else’s business. No one else visited her. There was no one else in the whole of the facility who was visited as faithfully as she was, he never missed a day – his hours were down right peculiar, but he was always there – he never brought flowers, she had never liked them he said, they should grow wild and free. His gaze had turned inward. He brought the staff flowers, and chocolates, he never forgot anyone’s birthdays, and he was almost the first and most generous to chip in for leaving presents, retirements and baby showers. 

Every new chaplain, every new psychiatrist made him their project for a while, ‘til he shed them, like he’d shed all those before and all who would come after. Could they make her better? Could they return her to him? Could they? Nothing else mattered, he certainly didn’t.

Met Jamie somewhere along the way, he’d looked at the ring. 

“You’re married then?”

“Yes.”

And, that was that, subject closed, no more questions asked, no more answers volunteered. Oh he had theories, Jamie always had theories, he also knew well enough to keep his fucking mouth shut. 

Malcolm Tucker was married, that was that.


	2. Tete a tete

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Terri and Nicola conspire. Well, mainly, Terri frets and drinks wine, Nicola plans. Nicola may be reconsidering already.
> 
> This chapter is funny (well I think it is) - just to make the next angsty hit, more angsty - bwahahahaha (er....sorry....not sorry)

An informal meeting the memo said, a little tete a tete, just us girls.

There were small bowls of snacks, there was a bottle of wine, there were two glasses.

Terri was nervous, probably justifiably. She tended to babble when she felt uncomfortable, actually she just tended to babble, but she’d been told stressful situations could exacerbate things, and to be honest, everything here, every day was stressful, she contemplated how much sick leave on full pay she was entitled to...she had, had to take extended time off in support of her family, but that was what daughters did. She didn’t really want to use up any of her holiday allowance, that seemed reasonable.

“Come in, sit down.”

Terri did, still not sure what was going on. There wouldn’t be wine and nibbles if she was being sacked would there? Probably not...maybe Nicola would think that was an appropriate way to soften bad news?

“What do you think about Malcolm?”

Why was she asking her about Malcolm?

“Really, honestly, I find it best not to. He’s rather sweary, and graphic and angry and loud and Scottish.”

“Yes, yes, we all know that, not him as Mr. Media,” she made air quotes, “not the Fucker Tucker,” she made air quotes again, “no him as a Malcolm, as a person.”

Terri was a little alarmed, she wasn’t quite sure where this was going or why. She could always say she had to get home to her Mum, that was always, mostly true, and she didn’t feel comfortable lying. She tended to go pink and sweat, not that ladies sweated. What was it her Mum said “women glowed”. Well she glowed a lot. She did like Chardonnay though and the nibbles were a nice touch, was it ok to keep helping herself, she didn’t want to look greedy, but it was only the two of them and Nicola had said something about having to watch her figure. It wasn’t her figure she needed to worry about, it was what she wore, she always looked so frumpy. What was it Malcolm said? “Glummy mummy.” Best not to smile at that, Nicola would ask why and she couldn’t lie, she would stammer and blush, she took another sip of wine. 

“Can I stick with my first answer please?”

“No, no, you cannot, we need to get Malcolm out of our hair, and Glenn and Ollie, well so far all I’ve uncovered are hidden shallows. No, we girls need to get our heads together. We need a plan to distract Malcolm, to keep him way, and you know I think it would do him good to be a bit less bloody miserable. I am going to make him our project.”

“Our”, when had Terri agreed to anything? 

“Really, I’m not sure, I don’t think we can sign him up to the WI or the National Trust, those don’t really seem to be his sort of thing and can you imagine him on a steam train, flat cap, grease and overalls? I simply don’t think so. “

She went to take another sip of wine and found her glass empty, she couldn’t imagine how that had happened. Could she refill her own glass, or did she need to wait for Nicola to offer? She should probably wait. She realised Nicola was still talking and she hadn’t heard a word.

“Sorry, what was that?”

Nicola glanced at her glass.

“Would you like a top up?”

“Oh, yes please, just a small one.” Although she held her glass ‘til it was full again.

“I wasn’t suggesting anything like that, no, not nearly distracting enough. I said we should get him a date.”

Terri choked on her mouthful of wine, she took another swallow to try and recover her equilibrium. Something nagged at the back of her mind.

“Isn’t he, you know, married?”

“No, Malcolm, no!” Nicola shook her head emphatically.

“He wears a ring.”

“I am sure its just to warn people off.”

“Shouldn’t we take that as a hint?”

“Look at it this way, do you really want him marching in here every day with his fuck this, cunt that, and constant, constant twattery fuckery, or whatever. Really? Do you?”

Phrased like that, there was nothing Terri could do but concur.

“Do you know someone then?”

“What?”

“Someone who he could date?”

“We are not inflicting him on someone we know. We don’t want to suffer the fall out from that...unless you know someone?”

Terri shook her head. How many glasses of wine had she had? Maybe she was home safe in bed with her dog, she was dreaming this, or she had a fever and was hallucinating. Yes, that seemed entirely more likely, a temperature induced hallucination. She really wasn’t sure about the Japanese snacks some of them were far too spicy for her liking – she was gong to find herself up all night with indigestion. Had she remembered to stock up on tablets when she was last at the chemist? She really wasn’t sure, there were usually some in her hand bag. She would look and see.

“So, that’s agreed then?”

“What’s agreed?”

“You’ll put together a profile!”

“I thought we were talking about Malcolm?”

“We are. You’ll put together a profile on him and fill in an online dating proforma. I have sent you the link.”

“No, no, I really don’t remember agreeing to that, honestly everything we know about him, wouldn’t that put people off?”

“That’s why I’m relying on you. I know how creative and imaginative you can be.” Nicola beamed at her.

If Terri hadn’t previously felt rising panic, she did now. The minister was smiling at her, smiling encouragingly. It was school prize day all over again. The Head had done that, when he’d called her into his study and said she would give the speech, in front of the school, the staff, the parents, the assembled local dignitaries and minor royals. It had been a disaster. She really needed to stop doing that, she must concentrate on what Nicola was saying before she found herself agreeing to something she wouldn’t, couldn’t and shouldn’t do. It might be fun though, if Nicola was paying, maybe she could sneak in a profile of her own. They did say that most matches these days were made online. And, if she was really, truly honest, nights with Mum and her dog, although jolly were a teensy bit lonely. Did Malcolm have a dog, she wondered? She giggled at the thought of him with something frou frou, a little Papillon, in a man bag, grimacing with distaste as he stooped to scoop the poop. Quite ridiculous of course, the hours he worked, the thing would have starved or run off long before now. She had to explain to Nicola why she giggled. Nicola looked confused or exasperated, or faintly constipated. It was hard to tell and she wasn’t going to ask her about her bowels.

“If we do this, we do this together.”

Terri placed her glass down firmly for emphasis, or she would have done, but she missed and the glass rolled across the floor. No harm done, it was empty. She smiled brightly at Nicola, almost took another handful of the snacks until she remembered not to and nodded. She recalled from something she’d read (possibly a magazine in the hairdresser’s) that if you nodded other people were more likely to go along with what you said. Nicola blinked at her.

“You could start by showing me the website. Have you already signed up? Is there a login and password? Terri flipped open her notebook and uncapped her pen.

“Malcolm Tucker, Machiavelli.”

This wasn’t quite going as Nicola had planned, she had hoped to kill two birds with one stone. A project to distract and occupy Terri (which had nothing at all to do with anything she was supposed to be doing), which as far as Nicola could tell could only be a good thing and find a solution to her eternal unending problem which was Malcolm. No one told you when you entered politics there would be people like Malcolm. She thought the worst she would have to face would be the opposition, which couldn’t be worse than her family. She had too many battle fronts, the press, the public, her constituents (which actually was probably the same thing), her family, but only Malcolm generated real fear.

No, dealing with Malcolm needed to be her priority, if the price she had to pay was Terri, so be  
it.

She refilled both their glasses.

**Author's Note:**

> All feedback is welcome, really.
> 
> Hated this - please tell me in detail
> 
> Loved this - please tell me (shameless attention whore)
> 
> Really loved this - please share
> 
> Thanks


End file.
